


Prima Nocta

by BananaStickers



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Male Friendship, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:49:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21746374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaStickers/pseuds/BananaStickers
Summary: Once you play your first NHL game, your captain gets to take your virginity.That's the way it's always been. It's tradition. How can John say no to tradition?How can John say no toSidney Crosby?
Relationships: John Marino/Sidney Crosby
Comments: 39
Kudos: 163





	Prima Nocta

**Author's Note:**

> I believe this is a prompt from the sinbin, although I've not seen the actual prompt; my buddies were chatting about it and well, here we are. 
> 
> Some world building that isn't explicitly explained in the fic: if a team has no captain, one of the As takes it. Each team handles that differently as to which A gets it. For Tanger, it was Sergei Gonchar due to them both being defensemen.

It’s a hell of a thing, to be drafted into the NHL. A dream come true, and the stress that comes with it. It’s getting up on stage, pulling on a jersey and shaking hands. Smiling for the cameras. Knowing an entire fanbase is talking about you, dissecting your performance, asking what you can bring to the team. The questions, the media, the photographs.

And possibly just as important as all those things, finally answering the question of who gets to take your virginity.

Of course, “virginity” is a nebulous concept. It goes from keeping fully chaste, allowing nothing more than a kiss, all the way to the other end of the spectrum where everything but bottoming - the thing you give to your captain, according to tradition - is all okay. John falls in the middle, and he thinks that’s a good compromise. He’s done hands and mouths, but any kind of sex, either with a woman or a man, top or bottom, that’s been off-limits so far. Doing otherwise feels like it violates the spirit of the tradition.

John doesn’t attend the first day of the draft, because he knows where he stands, knows he’s not going to get called so early. He watches the first round closely, though, watches the boys who are going to grow up into men and maybe become captains, and find themselves on the other side of that dynamic. McDavid and Eichel for sure; hell, both of them are going to probably pull a Crosby and get an early captaincy. John wonders what it would be like to lose your virginity one year, and then be the one given the gift of others’ virginity the year after. Connor McDavid is going to deflower a hundred virgins by the time he’s done, John thinks.

When Edmonton calls John’s name the next day, he doesn’t think about McDavid, not immediately. Joy is the only emotion he has room for, the Oilers sweater a heavy weight on his shoulders, his mouth stretched and sore from smiling. It’s only afterwards, when the Oilers get all the class’ draft picks together for a photo, does John think about it: by the time John makes it to the NHL, McDavid will be the captain. John shakes his hand, and he lingers on the firm touch, the dry skin, the tight almost-grimace that apparently passes for a smile in Connor’s world. He waits for an acknowledgment, anything, but there’s none. Connor fucking McJesus gets to take his v-card, and John wonders if Connor realizes it in that handshake, or when they press close for the photo, or later in his hotel room.

Maybe he never realizes it. Maybe Connor doesn’t care. Or maybe Connor _knows_, but John is just another guy in a long line of men that will end up underneath him, and he’s not important enough.

Whatever. John’s going to go to Harvard, get a girlfriend, and eat her out every fucking night. Then he’s going to make the NHL and get fucked by Connor McDavid so he can finally start banging said girlfriend. That’s the plan.

It’s a good plan, and John mostly sticks to it, except he never really keeps a girlfriend for very long, but he _does _eat a whole lot of pussy and gives one - okay, two - blowjobs. He also gets a whole lot of BJs in return, so that’s cool. All in all, not a bad college experience. It could be worse; he could be on the baseball team. _Those_ guys have some really fucking weird traditions for going pro.

The Oilers start trying to sign him around his junior year, but his agent doesn’t like any of their offers. Not enough money, not enough term, not enough to play in _Edmonton_, so John sits pat and waits. An entire season goes by, his whole junior year, and he’s still unsigned when his agent calls him in July. He’s been traded.

Traded to the Pittsburgh Penguins.

There’s a whole lot of considerations to unpack there, mostly about hockey. John immediately reads up on their defensive roster and prospects, the culture, the city. Mario fucking Lemieux calls him the next day and he tries not to be too dazzled by it. It’s a strong fit, though; the Pens’ pipeline on defense is pretty barren. John could step right into the AHL and be one of the few prospects ready for an NHL call-up. One injury and he could be in.

The Pens’ front office reiterates this to him and his agent for the next week, and in early August they reach terms, and John signs. He’s a Penguin.

That also means John's first night has moved from Connor McDavid to Sidney Crosby. It’s a hell of a pedigree on both sides. Not like his teammate Reilly Walsh, who gets to go to New Jersey and fuck _Andy Greene._

Not like Greene’s a bad guy, probably. But he’s no Crosby or McDavid.

John tries to set all that aside during training camp. It’s his first camp, so it’s already overwhelming without the prospect of _Sidney Crosby fucking you,_ but at the end of the day that fact is impossible to forget. It’s not the first thing he thinks about when Coach Sullivan shakes his hand and tells him that he’s made the team, but it’s a close second.

John’s a lot more into women than men, but Sid is electric, magnetic, and the difference between him and the awkward picture that McDavid projected is night and day. Despite his carefully-maintained neutral hockey robot persona with the media, John finds him anything but in person. He’s charming, funny, just as gross and dirty as every other player John’s ever met, and he goes out of his way to make John feel welcome. Basically, John’s really fucking into him, which is a plus because he’s gonna be in Sid’s bed sooner rather than later.

Or maybe they'll be in John's bed. He isn’t quite sure how it works.

Two days before opening night, Sid sidles up before practice and invites John out to lunch, and John’s stomach lurches. Is this it? Is today the day? But he still hasn’t played his first game yet, so that doesn’t make sense. He nods and smiles and agrees to the meal; it’s all he can do.

Sid takes him to some tiny place where the food is amazing and they somehow don’t get bothered, and they spend the meal talking about anything _but_ sex. By the end of it Sid knows his favorite snacks, his musical preferences, all about his family and hockey background, but there’s still an elephant in the room. The waiter brings the check, and John’s resigned to bringing it up himself when Sid balls up his napkin and offers John a patient smile.

“There’s something else we should talk about,” Sid says. “About the tradition.”

_The tradition_ \- that’s an awfully nice way of talking about fucking. “Right,” John says.

“I guess my first question is, do you want to?”

John narrows his eyes. “Do I have a choice?”

“On the Pittsburgh Penguins, you have a choice.” Sid shakes his head, jaw going tight. “You should have a choice on any team, but…well, we’re not there yet, I guess.”

John wonders about those teams, where he wouldn’t have a choice. The captains that might put him on his knees and make him take it. He wonders what McDavid would do. “I want to,” he says quietly. “I respect tradition. I haven’t - I’ve been saving - “

Sid puts a hand up to stop him. “We don’t have to talk about_ that _in public,” he says. “There will be a time for it later. Anyway, I have a few preferences. I don’t like to do it after your first game - you’ll have enough to stress about - and if possible, I like to get it done on the road.”

A hotel room; that makes sense. No awkwardness of John being in Sid’s house, or vice versa. John mentally tries to think of their upcoming schedule, but Sid’s ahead of it.

“First four games at home, and then we go to Minnesota. It’ll be good to get you settled beforehand, eh? A couple games under your belt?”

“Hopefully,” John says, and Sid grins, wide and bright.

“Welcome to the Pens, Johnny. I’m glad you’re on the team.”

~~~~~

John doesn’t play opening night, but he participates in warm-ups and the team introduction. _Welcome to Pittsburgh, number 6 John Marino!_ the announcer says, and the fans give him an applause as he skates out with a wave. Really, it’s more a polite clap than anything - nobody here knows who he is - but to John, it feels like thunder, the start of something amazing. Next to him, Schultzy elbows him and yells in his ear. “You’re gonna be great, kid!” he says, and John lets himself smile and believe that’s true.

He watches from the press box as the Pens lose 3-1 to the Sabres, and then watches again as the Pens dismantle the Blue Jackets 7-2. He’s just starting to wonder why they kept him up when Coach Sullivan pulls him aside the next day and says this is it, his NHL debut is coming up against the Jets, so call your parents and your brother and make sure they’re watching.

The Pens run seven defenseman, and John knows he’s getting sheltered minutes to test him out, but he must do well - he _feels_ like he does well, and the team hoots and hollers and congratulates him afterwards - enough that the team runs just six d-men in the next game, including him. Gudbranson sits and John’s on the third pair with Jack Johnson and despite the shit he gets from the fans, John finds JJ to be a perfectly fine defensive partner. It finally feels like he’s made it.

Well, except for the fact that he goes home and desperately jerks off every night, knowing he’s so close, _so fucking close,_ to losing his v-card. He’s going to get fucked by Sid and then he’s going to go pick up every Pitt sorority girl he can find and maybe a frat boy or two if he gets bored of that. John Marino is 22 years old, a professional athlete, a Pittsburgh Penguin and a virgin, and he’s so fucking sick of that last one he could _burst._

It’s only on the plane to Minnesota, where he finds an open seat next to Sam Lafferty, that he realizes the predicament. Laff is called up due to the injuries to Malkin, and...well, he’s a rookie too, having just played in his first game. Shit.

Laff is apparently aware of this fact as well, because he shifts and fidgets through takeoff before finally turning to John when they’re in the air. He looks calm, but there’s an aura of desperation surrounding him. “Hey Johnny,” he says carefully. “So um. You and me. Rookies. And uh…”

“Say no more, dude,” John tells him. Laff is 24 to John’s 22; two more years of agony, although John doesn’t know how strict Laff has taken the tradition. Based on his body language, it might be_ very _strict. Plus, Laff is a call-up due to injuries, whereas John is hopefully here for the long run. John can be the bigger man. “You can go first.”

“Really? I mean, you were up here before me - “

“Dude. It’s all you.”

“Man, Johnny,” Laff says, stretching out the first word in relief,_ maaaaaaaan._ “You’re the best. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. You want me to tell you all about it?”

John thinks about it for a split-second before shaking his head. He doesn’t want the experience colored by what Laff goes through. Anyway, he’s so horny sometimes these days that there’s a chance that John could just come in his damn pants if Laff starts describing sex to him, and that’s definitely something he wants to avoid.

He lets Laff go off and hang out with Adam Johnson and Joseph Blandisi, the other AHL call-ups due to the Pens’ injuries, and sets out to gauge the cliques happening on the plane. From what he can gather in the locker room, everyone seems to like everyone else, but there’s always cliques, John knows that from being on sports teams his whole life.

On the plane at least, it appears that the team has holistically separated into positions. The forwards are mostly lounging together, and there’s some kind of rousing competition happening on the Switch amongst them. Muzz and Jars are passed out asleep, one huge blanket thrown over both of them, wedged together side by side. John can see the defensemen in the back of the plane, playing cards and lounging on what appears to be a bunch of seats converted into a couch, so he heads that way.

From riding a bus to sitting on a _couch_ in a private airplane. What a difference a year makes, John thinks.

“Hey Johnny,” Schultzy says as John heads closer. “Want us to deal you in next round? Just poker. It’s not, uh - it’s not really for money.” Schultzy’s gaze darts quickly to JJ, almost involuntarily, then back up.

“Oh no, I recognize this look,” Tanger says. Kris Letang’s not playing poker. Instead he’s sprawled out on the couch, feet - socks, no shoes - in Schultzy’s lap, head in Dumo’s. He looks like some exotic cat, pleased and self-important, sleek and beautiful. His hair is mussed and wild from Dumo petting his hand through it. “Rookie’s first road trip. You’re not too old to remember what happens next, eh Schultzy?” Tanger pokes Schultzy in the stomach with his toe.

Schultzy slaps at Tanger’s calf with a mock scowl. “You’re older than me! If anyone would forget, it’s you.”

“Oh no, I don’t forget. It was Gonch for mine, so very memorable, let me tell you. But you...I mean, who the hell even was the Oilers’ captain then?”

Schultzy rolls his eyes. “Shawn Horcoff,” he grumbles. “Okay look, it wasn’t the most memorable, but it’s not like something you ever forget.”

“Ryan Getzlaf for me,” Marcus Pettersson says to a round of laughter. “I don’t even wanna hear it, boys.”

“I got you all beat,” JJ says. “Mattias Norstrom. I dare you to even try and remember what he looks like. And you don’t want to, because he was hideous.”

Dumo glances around the group with a grin. “Shit, am I the only one here who had Sid for my tradition night? Johnny, you got any questions or anything? We can go talk.”

“Hey,” Tanger whines, batting at Dumo’s hand. “Don’t fucking stop.”

Dumo huffs, rolls his eyes and resumes scritching his fingers over Tanger’s scalp. “I figured we could talk in _private,_” he tells Tanger. “Which means you gotta let me up.”

“No secrets in the d-corp, Dumo. Anyway, we all know _you’re _the reason why Sid gets a suite on a different floor from the team for the tradition nowadays, you loud bastard.”

Dumo goes red, and he slaps his cards down on the table. “Fuck off, that was_ Rusty,” _he insists. “It’s true though, Johnny. Bryan was so loud during his night that now Sid always rents out the big honeymoon suite in whatever hotel we’re in. So you can be as loud as you want, although you probably won’t be as loud as Rusty was.”

_“What?” _ Rusty screams from the front of the plane. “Dumo, did you call me?”

“Nope,” Dumo yells back cheerfully before turning back to John. “Are you nervous? Man, I was so nervous. But like, really excited, too. Sid’s awesome, bro. Wait, do you like men at all?”

John shrugs. “Not my first choice, but I don’t hate it.”

“Sid will take care of you, trust me. And then the world is your oyster. You’ll have to ask Petey here about all the best places to pick up chicks, though. I’m a married man now.”

Tanger hums, tilting his head so Dumo can get the other side of his scalp. “You forgot about the other tradition. The one where you give a blowjob to the ‘A’s?”

The rest of the d-corps instantly groans, rolling their eyes. “Tanger’s just trying to get his dick sucked,” Dumo says. “Don’t listen to him. That’s not a tradition.”

“First of all,_ you’ve _got the other ‘A’ in Geno’s absence, so maybe I’m also trying to get your dumb ass a BJ,” Tanger says, squinting at Dumo. “Second, if that’s not tradition, then what’s your excuse?”

There’s a beat of silence, and the red flush that had just been clearing up on Dumo’s cheeks comes back with a vengeance, and then the group explodes, everyone talking and laughing all at once. _“Dude,” _Schultzy says, laughing. “Really? Does your wife know?”

Dumo snorts. “Of course my wife kno - you know what guys, fuck off, really.”

John offers an innocent smile. “I thought there was no secrets in the d-corp,” he says, as innocently as possible, and Dumo gives him an exaggerated betrayed look while the rest of them howl in laughter.

“Even the fucking rookie,” he mutters. “I hate every single one of you.”

“Hey now,” Tanger says, stretching out and beaming up at Dumo. “This guy right here has one of the best plus-minuses in the league for like, two years. Maybe you should_ all _be sucking my dick, because apparently it makes you better - "

"It can't be cause I'm like, good at my job," Dumo interrupts, but Tanger snorts like that's ridiculous and waves him away. 

"It's my dick. So what do you think Johnny, you want in on this?”

“Pass,” John says, and Tanger laughs along with the rest of them, and then he gets dealt in on the next round of cards.

By the time the plane touches down, he’s feeling a little less nervous about the upcoming tryst. Each of the guys takes a turn describing their tradition nights, the awkwardness, the gaffes, the good and the bad, enough to convince John that Sid has probably seen literally everything, and he’s got nothing to worry about. Dumo especially is more than complimentary of Sid and his tradition night, gushing about the experience. At one point he takes John aside and quietly describes Sid’s thighs in such exquisite detail that John has to excuse himself to jerk off in the plane bathroom, which is very low on the list of places he ever thought he’d get off. Tanger gives him his lazy tiger smile when John gets back to the table. “Hope you washed your hands,” he says to laughter.

“You’re the worst,” Dumo tells Kris, and John’s not sure he would disagree with that.

~~~~~

They win in Minnesota. No, actually, they blow Minnesota the fuck out of the water, and Laff gets his first goal in the NHL to boot. What a night for him: his first NHL goal, his first fuck. Sid and Laff disappear shortly after they get back to the hotel, and besides a few bawdy jokes from the rest of the guys, it’s just treated as totally normal. Which, John supposes, it is; every single man in this league has gone through it. Still, when he allows himself to sit down and think about it, it kind of blows his mind that this tradition is still going, that young men in their early 20s still save themselves for their captains. But hell, he’s done it too, hasn’t he? With never a second thought that he _wouldn’t._

Laff is clearly floating on cloud nine the next day at breakfast, and John burns with questions but asks none. The team doesn’t say anything, just smirks knowingly.

They’re on to Winnipeg after that, and even though it’s October, it’s already chilly. “Hate this fuckin’ place,” Tanger grouses as they step onto the tarmac, wind whipping his long hair every which way. “Kid, we gotta get you a nice coat.”

“I have a nice coat,” John protests. Well, it’s not like Tanger’s, which is a beautiful fall peacoat, cashmere and grey and probably cost as much as his parents make in a month. John’s is from Macy’s. It cost $130 and for the price, he thinks it looks pretty damn good. “I mean, I’m gonna upgrade soon.”

“God, do you ever remember being a rookie? Give him a break,” Schultzy groans from behind them. “Anyway, Winnipeg is gonna be perfect for your tradition night. It’s too cold to do anything but stay inside and bang it out.”

Tanger leers back at him. “Does that mean you’re coming to my room tonight?”

“Nah, I’m gonna be in mine and facetime your mom instead. It’s not the same as being live, but it gets the job done.”

Tanger barks a laugh and says something in French that John doesn’t understand but can instantly tell is very unflattering, and Schultzy bumps into him, ignoring Tanger. “Seriously,” he tells John. “It’ll be great. Also, we’re gonna fucking_ cream_ the Jets. We need some revenge from that garbage performance we showed ‘em last week. We’re due. C’mon, let’s go.”

~~~~~

They cream the fucking Jets. Another 7 goals on the board, and Laff gets two more. He gets mobbed in the locker room, Guentzy grabbing him and giving him a noogie. “This poor guy,” Jake laughs. “He can finally pick up and we’re stuck here in _Winnipeg.”_

“Hey,” Tanger scowls. “Canadian girls are the best. I mean, it’s no Quebec, but...”

“You spent the entire plane ride bitching about Winnipeg!”

“I’m just saying. Canada girls, _far_ superior to American girls.”

Guentzy scoffs. “You know me and Laff are both Americans, right? Also, us Americans scored, what, six of the seven goals tonight? Me, Laff, Reeser?”

“I said what I said,” Tanger insists, and it’s chaos in the locker room, everyone shouting about preferences and boasting about how beautiful their local women - and men, for some - are. Dumo’s chanting _USA! _on one side of John, and Schultzy is dying laughing in the other, and it’s just a little too much with everything else swirling around in his brain right now. He takes the time to slip away to the showers, the din of the locker room quieting to a dull roar.

Now that he’s under the spray, he frets a little bit, taking a sniff at the body wash provided by Winnipeg - ick. It’s a weird, too-floral lavender, and John needs to clean himself well for what’s happening tonight. Further, he needs to clean himself _out, _but he’s sure not going to do that here. He wonders if he’s going to have time after the game - should he have done it yesterday? Ah, hell.

“Hey man.” Zach Aston-Reese is in the showers now, gives him a knowing smile. “Just do a quick wash, take another shower back at the hotel and do what you gotta do. Sid’ll give you time. Trust me.”

“Thanks,” John says gratefully, so he takes it to heart, just a quick shower. He’s finished before most everyone else so he gets on the bus, plays around with his phone, tries not to dwell on the fact that this is actually happening. It's actually, finally happening, with _Sidney Crosby._

Sid gives him a smile when he gets on the bus, but doesn’t sit with John, moves towards the back like always, where all the vets tend to sit. John’s grateful for it; it would seem too weird otherwise. Laff, still riding high from his two goal night, slides in next to him instead. “What do you think,” he asks. “Should I pick up tonight?”

“Was Tanger that convincing? We’ll be back in Pittsburgh tomorrow, and you’re gonna be a damn hero, Laff. Just go out then.”

Apparently he’s made the right argument, because Laff has stars in his eyes at the prospect. “You’re right. I can’t fucking wait,” he says. “Oh shit, and you’re gonna come out with me too, right? You gotta come out with me.”

Nobody’s going to know who John is, but - look, he_ likes_ Laff, but Sam ain’t exactly the most handsome guy in the room. Next to Laff, John looks pretty good, and that could work to his advantage. “Hell yeah,” he says, and they high-five.

Laff keeps up his chatter the entire way back to the team hotel, which is luckily a short drive. John really tries to pay attention, but he’s thinking of Sid, the way he moves on the ice, confident and explosive and intense. Is that the way he moves in bed, as well? “You’re out of it,” Laff says when he finally catches on, although he laughs and shrugs. “I guess I can’t blame you. Oh hey, I bought an extra, um, like an enema? For uh, you know? If you wanna use it?”

John does want to use it, very much so, thanks a lot Laff.

Sid stops him on the way off the bus. “Hey, you wanna text me when you’re ready?” he asks, as if he’s asking John out to dinner or a drink or something else banal.

“Sure,” John says, which also reminds him that he’s got Sid’s number in his fucking phone, which is still hard to believe sometimes.

Laff is enough of a gentleman to keep the room cleared while John goes through prep, the ugly side of sex that nobody ever talks about and no porn ever shows. He probably takes too long with it, but damned if he isn’t going to be squeaky clean and smelling like a rose for Sid. That’s the bare minimum he can do, he figures.

John texts, and Sid gives him a room number, and sure enough it’s on the top floor of this very nice hotel. The honeymoon suite, he remembers the team saying, but who honeymoons in _Winnipeg? _ The door to the room is non-descript, same as his a couple floors below, and he takes a deep steadying breath and knocks.

“John,” Sid welcomes him inside with a smile, and holy hell, the room is _huge. _ It’s got a fireplace - isn’t that some kind of fire code hazard, John wonders - and he can see a giant jacuzzi tub in the bathroom. The bed isn’t just a king, it’s larger than that, and there’s. Oh god, there are rose petals on it.

“Uh…” John stops, surveying the flowers, and then noticing a tray with a champagne bottle on it, sitting on the dresser. This is not what he expected. Is this normal?

“I_ know,” _Sid groans, shaking his head. “Every hotel I do this, I tell 'em: no champagne, no roses, no strawberries, none of that. We just need the privacy, you know? But when you book this kind of suite, this stuff comes with the price, and half the time they put it out anyway. Not a bad champagne though, I’m not opposed to having a drink. Come on in, lemme get these damn petals off. Sorry, I meant to do it before you got here.”

“Sure,” John says, pausing by the window to look out while Sid brushes the pedals into the tiny trash can. The lights of downtown twinkle brightly, and John thinks he can see a stray flurry or two, spiraling down from the clouds. In the reflection of the window he can see Sid finishing with the clean up, moving over to stand next to him.

“I know most guys don’t like Winnipeg,” Sid says, tracking a snowflake from the sky to the ground. “But I dunno, I think every city has its charms. There’s a really cool military museum here. You gotta get a security clearance for it and everything to see it all.”

“Huh,” John says, because - what else can he say? This is not the conversation he expected to have right now. “Cool.”

Sid laughs and nudges him. “Alright, I get it, enough small talk. You can back out of this whenever, you know. The offer still stands. We only do what you’re comfortable with.”

John glances over, gives Sid his full attention. He’s wearing these grey sweats that are supposed to be loose, John has the same pair, but instead hug his ass and thighs like nobody’s business. With Sid’s physique, that was probably inevitable. They're paired with a soft t-shirt that looks like Sid has owned it for ten years, which might be true, even knowing Sid as little as he does. But despite his casual appearance, his hair is carefully done, and he smells really good, a spicy kind of cologne that makes John want to bury his face in Sid’s neck and never get up. _Whatever you’re comfortable with, _Sid says. “I mean - “ John starts, and before he can think too much he sidesteps into Sid’s space, bends down just a little bit and kisses him.

It’s an awkward press of the lips at first, but then Sid gets his hand on John’s chin and reorients them to slot together perfectly. Sid doesn’t open his mouth, so John doesn’t either, but even the close-mouthed kiss is sweet and sensual, and John wants more,_ more._

“Hey now,” Sid pulls back a little, grinning and licking his lips. Shit, those lips. “We should talk first. I know you’ve been waiting a long time for this, but let’s make it good, eh? Take a look and find a movie while I go piss. We can watch, and talk, and maybe do a little more of this.”

A little more kissing? Fuck yeah. “Okay,” he says, and then Sid puts the remote in his hand and vanishes into the bathroom, and he blinks at the screen, at the pay-per-view options in front of him. It’s a quick scroll to the porn channels - John’s never paid for porn, but Sid did say to put on a movie, and he assumes this is the obvious choice for what they’re about to do. What kind of porn would Sid be into? MILF options? Nah, that doesn’t seem right. Frat boy initiations? Well...maybe?

“What the fuck,” Sid says from the bathroom door, laughing. “A _movie,_ Johnny. Like...a real movie, not a porn. I guess we can watch a porn if you want? Do you pay for porn or something?”

“Uh, no. Not usually. I just thought…” Sid’s still laughing, and that puts John at ease. He shakes his head with a self-deprecating snort. “You said movie! I thought you were just being polite!”

“When the fuck am I ever_ polite,”_ Sid says, and he’s got a point there. The perfect media poster boy has the filthiest mouth John might ever have heard on the ice, which still startles him sometimes.

(“Wait til we play Philly,” Dumo had told him when John expressed surprise at Sid’s language, and John is probably far more excited than he should be for that match-up.)

John shrugs. “There’s two west coast games still on. You just wanna watch the end of one of those instead?” John doesn’t really want to watch a movie; he’s ready to _go._

Sid must pick up on that, because he nods in assent, heads over to sit on the bed. It’s the Flames-Sharks game that John finds first, and he flips that on and crawls next to Sid. There’s a single stray petal next to him, shockingly red on the cream colored comforter, and he picks it up, twirls it between his fingers.

“Missed one,” Sid says. “Have you put any thought into how you want to do this? You don’t _have _to tell me, but what have you done before?”

John keeps his eyes on the petal, pretending to study it; it’s easier to stare at this than at Sid. “Hands. Mouths. That’s it. I mean, for what I’ve done.”

“John.” Sid gently tugs the rose petal out of his grasp, discards it over the side of the bed, on the floor, forcing their gaze to meet. “We can still just do that, if you want. Virginity is a spectrum, right? We can blow each other. Or I can fuck you. Or you can fuck me. Or...any combination of things, really.”

“You’d let me fuck you?”

“I know, not very conventional, eh.” Sid sets a finger to his lips. _ Shhh._ “But I know some guys are uncomfortable with bottoming, or the idea of it. And I like it, so it’s no hardship.”

Sid likes bottoming - John files that fact away for later. For...educational purposes. “Like, what do most guys do?”

“Well,_ tradition_ is that the rookie takes it.” Sid shrugs. “That’s what I did. That’s what most guys do. But not everyone. You do what you want, Johnny.”

Bottoming has never been something John has fantasized about, but he’s made his peace with it, knowing this day would come - hopefully. This new swerve, that he _doesn’t_ have to bottom, has thrown him for a loop. Still, how does he know he won’t like it? Maybe he’ll fucking_ love_ it. “Let’s go traditional,” John says. “But maybe, uh. Go slow. It’ll be my first - well, shit, you know that.”

Sid chuckles, leans forward. “Right,” he says. “So...kissing? No kissing?”

“Kissing.” _Lots_ of kissing, if John has anything to say about it. Sid nods, pulls him in, and he’s covering John’s mouth with his again, except this time his is open, inviting. It’s probably cliche to say, but the first touch of Sid’s tongue feels electric, sending a fire sparking and burning down his throat and spreading out to his limbs, right to his dick. He’s desperate for it in an instant, and Sid makes a low rumble that he realizes is a chuckle.

“Got all night, Johnny,” he says, nipping gently at John’s lower lip. “Just relax a minute. Let me take care of you.”

John swallows and nods, and Sid takes the opportunity to nudge John’s chin up, gently kiss down his neck. Every kiss leaves a little wet mark that cools against his skin, especially when compared to Sid’s hot mouth. He throws his head back to the ceiling and listens to the announcers on television talk about the Flames’ powerplay and his own breathing, growing heavier and louder by the moment.

“I’ve been so impressed with you,” Sid murmurs against his collarbone, starting to kiss back up to his mouth. “All the right reads, so calm back there. Real glad you’re on the team. Gonna be an asset for years.”

John nearly laughs, because he’s in bed with Sid, the television tuned to hockey, the sexy talk comprised of compliments to his game and it seems so fitting, so right. “I’m glad to be here,” John says, and at the moment he’s not sure whether _here_ means on the Penguins or fitted snug against Sid. He’s in no position to critically examine it, so he loses himself in another kiss, presses a palm between his legs to tame down his dick, already raging and demanding they get a move on.

But Sid likes to kiss, it seems. They make out until the game is over; the post-game show filters briefly into his consciousness before being replaced by Sid’s mouth, his smell, his taste. Sid’s hands run up his sides, and John’s heart is jackhammering like he just took a three minute shift. His shirt rucks up, and when Sid’s hands hit his bare skin, he can’t stop the whine that bursts out of his throat, involuntary and loud.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Sid grins. John can feel Sid’s mouth stretched into a smile against his own. “Wanna take some clothes off?”

“Uh,_ yeah,”_ John scoffs, which draws another laugh out of Sid. He pulls away, twists his shirt over his head, fumbles briefly with the button on his pants and gets them off his hips before realizing his shoes are still on. John yanks at the laces, shoes sprawing to the floor with two loud thumps, his pants following shortly after.

It’s about that time he realizes Sid is sitting back on his haunches, watching him with a smile, still clothed. “Oh, don’t let me stop you,” Sid says when John pauses at his briefs. “I just like watching. The youthful enthusiasm always makes me pretty happy.”

“I aim to please,” John says. He’s a little more self-conscious now that he knows Sid is watching, but he decides to get it over with, lifts his hips and scoots his briefs down. Now he’s naked, laid bare in front of Sid, and he settles back against the pillow. Sid is still fully dressed; that hopefully means John gets to watch him, too.

“No problems there. I’m very pleased with you.” Again, John doesn’t know if Sid means here in bed, or as a Pittsburgh Penguin, and he’s not sure which would make him happier. Both, he decides as he shifts around to get comfortable, watching Sid slide off the bed to disrobe.

Sid isn’t desperate, or fumbling like John was. It’s a good view, one he hasn’t allowed himself too much in the locker room for fear of staring. John admires the broad expanse of Sid’s back as his shirt comes off, the cut of his hips. And then the pants - everyone always talks about Sid’s ass, and god it’s a beaut, but what John notices first is his thighs. They’re _insane._ John’s always felt like he has a nice hockey player physique, strong legs, good core, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Sid’s thighs were double the size of his.

John's eyes trail up from Sid's legs to what's between them, and okay, he's got a nice-sized dick, too. That’s the one thing John tried sneaking a peek of once or twice in the showers, to see what size cock might be up his ass. It’s not a fucking _monster_ like Hornqvist has - John isn’t trying to look, but Horny walks around with his dick swinging everywhere so it’s hard not to notice - but it’s still intimidatingly large. For a brief second he thinks about backing out, about asking to top instead, which would also have the advantage of getting in Sid’s beautiful ass. But he gave his answer already, and he doesn’t want to look indecisive, so he says nothing.

“Mind if I blow you?” Sid asks, which may be the dumbest question John has ever heard. He manages to not look too incredulous while nodding his agreement. “Cool. I really like giving them,” Sid says, which is yet another fact that John is going to file away for later. “You might not wanna come yet, though. First time bottoming always feels better when you’re still hard, in my opinion.”

John is very, very hard, and pretty sure he could get it up again in a flash even if he came, but he nods again. “I’ll let you know,” he says.

“Perfect,” Sid says, and then he leans down and takes John in hand, kissing wetly at the tip. John tries and fails to stop his hips from jerking up as Sid doesn’t suck at first, kissing and licking up and down the shaft like he wants to learn every nuance of it. John feels a little like a wild bronco, wanting nothing more than to buck and writhe under Sid’s touch. That probably wouldn’t be polite, though, so he tries to stay still, focusing on a tiny water stain on the ceiling, trying to calm down.

That works until Sid murmurs, “Nice,” and then his mouth closes over John, taking him down his throat. John makes that same whine from before, a noise he’s never heard himself make before and has now made twice tonight, and he can’t stop his hips from juddering, feels like he’s going to shake out of his bones. Sid lays his arm, gentle but firm, over John’s thighs to keep him pinned, and John is grateful for it. With his legs pinned, his arms seem to want to flail, so he keeps his hands clenched in the comforter, unsure of what else to do with them.

John loses all sense of time with Sid’s mouth - Sid’s talented, enthusiastic, _hot _mouth - on him. He’s gotten plenty of blowjobs, but this is somehow different than the college girls and the occasional frat boy whose mouths he enjoyed before. He doesn’t understand why this is so _good_ compared to the others; it’s hot and wet like every other mouth, and plenty of girls have been enthusiastic. Sid’s not really pulling out any brand new cards from the deck here. But this hits him hard, and maybe John understands what an alcoholic goes through now, because he could get addicted to this pleasure, this burning anticipation of orgasm curling through his gut. “Wait,” he whimpers, and it takes every ounce of his willpower to say it. “I’m gonna - wait - you gotta - “

He can’t bring himself to say_ stop_, but Sid gets it. He pulls off with an obscene, wet pop, pats John’s thighs with a smile. “Thanks,” he says, as if he were receiving instead of giving. “Let’s get you ready now?”

There are lube and condoms on the bedside dresser; John only just notices them, half-hidden behind the tray of champagne. “Yeah,” he says, and he expects to be more nervous, but the blowjob seems to have shorted out every emotion except for need. Sid’s going to open him up and then fuck him, and then John is finally going to get off. He focuses on the end goal and opens his legs wide, inviting.

John recoils a little at the first touch of the lube-slicked fingers. Even knowing this day was going to come, he rarely touched himself there, and now he’s sorely regretting it. Sid pets his hip, pauses, lets his fingers sit at the rim until John relaxes, and so it goes, slow and steady. He’s being treated a little like a skittish horse, soothing tone and soft words, but it helps. At some point, Sid moves his other hand to John’s flagging dick, which perks up again at the touch, and that helps too.

One finger is a weird intrusion, two feels like a lot, but three feels_ huge,_ and he wonders how he’s going to take Sid’s dick. “Doing great,” Sid murmurs. John doesn’t feel like he’s doing great. He feels overly full and slick and sort of uncomfortable. “Opening up so well for me. Here - “

Sid does something inside John with his fingers, a quick crook, and the discomfort is momentarily overridden by a sweet bolt of pleasure. “Ah,” John groans, so Sid does it again. That,_ that _feels good. Not like a hand or a mouth on his dick, but still pretty good, something he can cling to in all this. “Yeah - yeah, that,” he says, trying to convey what he needs.

“I know, I know. I’ve got you,” Sid says, gently withdrawing his fingers, which drives a spike of nerves through his stomach. If they’re done with the fingering, then - “I think you’re ready. Do you feel ready?”

_No. _ “Yeah.”

“Just keep talking to me, Johnny. If anything doesn’t feel good, you let me know.” Sid’s putting on the condom while he talks, and John sits up a little, watches with interest. Health class always told him that he should wear a condom for _anything, _including blowjobs, but who wraps it for BJs? John understands the principal of putting on a condom; it’s not that hard. But watching someone actually roll one on live and in person, and the understanding of what that means for the near future, that’s a new thing entirely. “How do you want it? Like this, on your back? Hands and knees? You could ride me. Some guys like that, being able to control the pace.”

God no, John thinks, that’s way too much fucking pressure. “On my back. Right here,” he says, because that’ll be another thing he can lock away for later, what Sid looks like while he’s having sex, the face he makes during his orgasm. John wants to see.

Sid crawls back on the bed, fits himself against John’s body, kisses him again while he gets situated. He pulls John’s legs up, spreads them a little more, and John lets himself be maneuvered and manipulated how Sid sees fit. Finally, Sid must be satisfied because he nips at John’s lower lip, soothing it with a quick tongue right after. “Ready?”

“Let’s do this,” John says, and tries not to cringe because it might be the unsexiest thing he’s ever said while naked. Sid must be already lined up, because right after he says it there’s a pressure, Sid’s cock probing for entry. His body resists for a couple seconds, and John has a brief panic that it’s never going to fit, this is never going to work; but then he opens up, and Sid is pushing inside him. It seems to go on forever, until he feels cored open, laid bare on Sid’s dick. “God,” he breathes, strangled.

“Doing good, shhh, shhh,” Sid soothes, kissing him, big hands spanning around John’s waist. “You feel so good, Johnny. I’m gonna try and hit that spot you liked, okay? You wanna play with yourself? Stroke your dick while I fuck you?”

“Uh huh,” John says, and Sid rocks back and then in again, the first thrust. He makes another strangled noise - _too much, too big_ \- and gets a hand between them, cups his own cock. The touch helps fade out the pain (no, pain’s not the right word for it; discomfort, perhaps) but even stroking himself barely staves off the ache as Sid picks up the pace. True to his word, Sid is hitting that spot inside him, but it feels like a small flashlight in the dark woods, not enough, not enough. “Wait,” he gasps, and Sid stills instantly.

“You’re okay,” Sid tells him, then pauses and shakes his head. “You’re not okay. Talk to me. Want me out?”

“Out,” John agrees, and he finally feels like he can breathe again when Sid withdraws. “Fuck.” He’s disappointed, feels like a failure. How many other rookies freaked the hell out about this? He’s probably the only one, right?

“So you’re a top, then.” Sid presses a kiss to the side of his mouth before stripping off the condom. “Nothing to be ashamed of there. You’ll be a popular guy if you go for men, anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” John says, shifting a little. It’s wet and oily between his thighs. It’s fucking_ gross_. “I mean, I should be able to do it at least once.”

“Nah. That’s on me. I should have recognized it, gotten you ready a little more, or not made you bottom in the first place.” Sid tilts his head, looking speculative. “We can stop here, you know. You did it. I got inside you. You’re not a virgin anymore. _But.”_

“But?”

“But you could fuck me instead, if you want.” Sid’s smile turns leering, and he winks. “Show me that big dick top energy, huh?”

John can’t hold back a surprised laugh - _big dick top energy_, yeah right - but his flagging arousal comes roaring back with a vengeance. Sid, underneath him. Sid, clenching that beautiful ass around his dick. Sid - god, _Sid._

“Yeah,” John says, suddenly breathless. “Okay, yeah, I - I gotta get you ready, huh?”

Sid snags the lube off the nightstand and a hand towel to clean up, presses them into John’s hand. “Easier now that you’ve gone through it yourself,” he says. “You don’t have to be quite so gentle, though. This definitely isn’t my first time, and I like it a little rough. I like to feel it the next day. Luckily we’re off tomorrow, eh?”

“Luckily,” John parrots, dazed, because - even more facts to tuck away into his brain. Sid walking funny the next day because of John’s dick, _holy shit._

The lube isn’t nearly as gross on his fingers as it was when it was slicking his thighs. Sid drops his chest to the bed, getting on his hands and knees, and John is momentarily struck dumb at the sight. “I can lay on my back if you want,” Sid says. “Just, I think it’s easiest to finger me like this. Come on, I’ll teach you how to find my prostate.”

John knee-walks over to Sid, takes a moment to admire his ass, the little pucker when John presses aside one cheek to see. He tries to emulate what he remembers having just been done to him, a slow circle around Sid’s rim with lubed fingers until Sid makes an impatient wiggle. “Come on,” he urges, so John presses inside. Just one finger, but it slides inside Sid like he’s made for it, not fighting it like John’s body did.

Sid groans, and John stills for a moment, afraid it was a pained groan - but no, Sid glances over his shoulder, and he’s smiling and flushed and gorgeous. “More,” he demands, and John can’t do anything but give it to him, his second finger slotting in easily next to the first. “Move them. Press down, towards my dick.”

“Like - “ John curls them, straight down, and Sid makes a noise so deep and low that John can feel it vibrate through his fingers.

“Yeah,” Sid moans. “Right there. Keep pressing - not quite that hard - just rubbing, like - yeah, like _that - “_

Sid keeps up a steady stream of commentary as John pushes and presses and massages, gently fucking his fingers in and out. This he can do, long practiced with a hundred girls during college. It’s a little different here - a tighter hole to navigate in, the moans he’s drawing lower-pitched - but for maybe the first time tonight, he feels somewhat competent, somewhat confident. Suddenly, Sid’s words drop off to just groans; maybe he thinks John has gotten the hang of it.

Sid’s head hangs low, and John can just peek his expression through his legs. Sid’s mouth is parted open, and it looks like his eyes are rolled back in his head, so alright - John has definitely gotten the hang of it. “Gonna need you to fuck me soon, Johnny,” Sid mumbles.

“Fuck yeah,” John says, wanting to sound a little more casual and failing spectacularly. He picks up the condoms, drops the package immediately with his lube-slippery hands, dries them off on the little towel and tries again.

Suddenly Sid is there, looming over him, gently pushing him back to the bed. “Let me,” Sid says, grabbing a condom. John’s momentarily confused, but then Sid pops the condom in his mouth and - 

Oh. Oh,_ yeah. _

It’s impressive as hell, John thinks, watching Sid slide the condom on John’s cock with just his mouth. Not a trick he’ll probably ever need to learn, but he’s glad Sid knows it. “Stay there,” Sid tells him, swinging a leg over John’s hips until he’s hovering over his dick.

John’s breathless, dry-mouthed, _dumbstruck_ as he watches Sid lower himself down, heat blooming around his cock as it slides into Sid. His thighs look like he could crush John to death in this position and John would welcome every single suffocating moment. “Fuck, Johnny,” Sid whimpers, and - okay, yet another thing for John’s spank bank later on, the way Sid says his name while he’s riding his dick.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” John says, because he can’t think of any statement in the universe more true than that, right here and now. Sid’s mouth briefly curls into a grin, but it drops off in favor of a pinched, slack-jawed grimace, chasing his orgasm as he lifts off John’s cock and sinks back down. Sid makes it look easy and effortless as he rides, those amazing thighs put to good use.

Sid’s dick, hard and leaking, is bobbing as he moves, so John reaches out and curls his fingers around it. “Don’t stroke it,” Sid whines. “Wanna savor this, okay? Want you to come first.”

That’s not going to be a problem, John is sad to admit - already he can feel his balls drawing up, his belly tightening in anticipation of his orgasm. “Can I - “ John starts to ask, but he realizes there’s too many words to describe what he wants to do to Sid, so instead he just _does. _ Sid’s big, but John feels crazed and strong, and he’s able to grab Sid’s hips and start to topple them over. Sid understands immediately, doesn’t resist; they end up with Sid on his back, legs in the air, tucked up on John’s hips.

“Hard,” Sid orders, and John obeys. Loud slaps fill the air as John fucks in; he’s vaguely aware he’s grunting with the effort, more aware of Sid moaning underneath him. It feels like a dam bursting, taking all the years of want and need out on Sid’s ass, which clenches and spasms around him. He tries to hit Sid’s prostate and probably fails, so wrapped up in his own pleasure, but Sid looks like he’s loving it regardless. “Johnny,” he cries out, and maybe it wasn’t Rusty or Dumo that was the loud one, John thinks, but Sid himself.

He’s close, and his frantic thrusts slow and get deep and heavy at the end, each of them physically moving them up the bed. His last thrust bumps Sid up against the headboard; coming feels like a religious experience. He hangs on to Sid, clutching his hips as he shakes through it, the pleasure so deep it almost hurts.

A slick sound brings him back to the present, and it’s Sid, stroking his own dick, watching John with pleased, half-lidded eyes. “That was really hot, Johnny,” he says.

“Wait - “ John gently bats his hand away. “Let me.” He’s going to regret it forever if he doesn’t get his mouth on Sid’s dick at least once tonight.

Sid’s jaw twitches, looking like it takes some effort to not touch himself. “You can get rid of the condom first. Then come suck me.” The famous Sidney Crosby patience; John won’t make him wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “I’ll warn you before I finish. You don’t need to swallow.”

“Don’t need to, but I want to,” John says, stripping off the condom and tossing it on the nightstand. He’s not sure where the trash is, and he doesn’t care.

“You sure?”

Instead of answering, he scoots to the end of the bed, takes a brief moment to acquaint himself with Sid’s dick up close, and then puts his mouth on it. It tastes kind of like lube, from the condom earlier. It’s not a great flavor. John doesn’t give a shit; Sid’s moans and noises more than make up for a little bit of a sour taste. 

John hasn’t sucked a ton of dicks, but he pulls out every trick he’s ever learned, plus a whole lot of enthusiasm. He can_ feel _how close Sid is, how hard Sid is in his mouth, and god help him he’s a little chubbed up again. John has always liked making his partners come, but this is on another level. “Johnny,” Sid sighs. “Get ready, get ready.”

John’s ready.

He’s never liked the taste of come, but he moans as Sid shoots into his mouth, inexplicably turned on by it. Maybe it’s victory, an affirmation that he might have been a virgin an hour ago, but by god he can give his partner a good orgasm. He swallows it all, just like he promised, and comes up smiling.

“Yeah, you should look happy with yourself,” Sid teases, sounding fucked out and sleepy. “That was great. Hey, you like cuddling? If you do, you should come up here.”

They end up squirming under the covers, pressed intimately close. Objectively, they’re kind of gross, lube and spit and sweat, but John wouldn’t move for the world. Sid plays with his hair a little, all the curls that John has alternatively liked and loathed growing up. Right now, they’re firmly in the ‘like’ territory. “Just remember not to go too crazy with picking up, now,” Sid says. “Sleep is important. Being ready for games and practices is important.”

It’s the first time tonight John has been reminded that Sid is his_ captain_, not just a peer, and he nods. “Promise,” he says. “I won’t jeopardize this opportunity for anything.”

“Didn’t figure you would. Just had to say it, though.”

John hums, nodding. “I get it. And I gotta ask. They say you had to move up to these suites because someone was being so loud. Who was it?”

Sid snorts a laugh. “Lemme guess, you heard that about Dumo. Tanger just likes to spread that rumor because it drives Brian crazy. It’s true, but it wasn’t him. Dumo was actually pretty quiet.”

“So who was it?”

“Hey now, I don’t kiss and tell.” Sid kisses his temple. “It may or may not have been Conor Sheary. Who can say for sure?”

John grins, settles in closer. He doesn’t know Sheary personally, but it’s easy to picture: Sheary is short, so Sid would cover his whole body. Maybe Conor wanted it hard. Maybe he begged for it as Sid railed him. Fuck, he’s getting a little hard again. What now? “So do we like - am I spending the night?” he asks. “Because uh, I can blow you again in the morning.”

Sid lifts an eyebrow. “That’s not really how it…” He trails off, shrugs. “What the hell. Sure, okay. You wanna shower first and then go to sleep? Or, uh - “ Sid shifts, and John’s hard-on presses into his thigh. Cover blown, shit. “Would showering just be a waste of time?”

Is Sid asking him to go again? “Oh, fuck yeah,” John growls, pulling Sid in for a fierce kiss.

~~~~~

John doesn’t really feel like going out the next night, but he promised Laff, so he goes. As he expected, Laff gets a lot of attention, mostly from men but also from plenty of women. He dances with these hot young blonde sorority girls all night, makes a big show to John about which petite little thing he’s gonna go bang, but John catches him at the end of the night slipping out with a big man that could only equitably be called a _bear. _ Not exactly the kind of guy John expected, but whatever makes Laff happy, he figures.

As for him, he ends up dancing with a beautiful redhead who knows exactly who he is and has her eyes on the prize. She is straight up WAG material, and John would be stupid not to take her home. Call John a lot of things, but he’s not stupid.

Sex with a woman is pretty amazing, everything he thought it would be, and he’s happy and satisfied by the time he strips off the condom. “Can I stay the night?” she - her name is Brittany - asks. “I can make pancakes in the morning, if you have the ingredients.”

“I like pancakes,” John says, and scoots over to give her some room.

He wakes up in the morning curled around a warm body, snuggles closer to it with a smile. “Sid,” he mumbles, only half-awake. God, he could stay like this forever, pressed next to Sid. In a few he’ll wake up and get his mouth on that dick again, or maybe get inside his - 

“What?” The feminine voice snaps him out of him. Brittany is yawning, looking at him strangely. “What did you say, baby?”

“Ah - nothing,” John mutters, suddenly wide awake, heart hammering in his chest. “Did you say something about pancakes?”

“Right! You just stay here and sleep in a little. My treat, baby.”

John doesn’t go back to sleep. He stares at the ceiling, watching the first rays of light struggle to shine through his window blinds, and thinks about Sid. Sid’s mouth, Sid’s ass, the goofy honking laugh he made in the morning when John accidentally touched something ticklish, the way Sid was just as loud during round two, his cock peeking out from the soap suds in the shower, Sid, Sid, _Sid._

Ah, shit.

He is so_ fucked._


End file.
